He sits alone guarding
a statue of Buddha
behind a rusted fence,
looking from left to right,
making sure no pictures
are taken as he sits on
his chair, legs crossed,
wearing a Mao suit.

His hair is white and gray
like modern Beijing snow,
ash and ice brushed in
with wrinkles on his skin,
his hands, his fingers,
but his suit, creased and
pressed, is immaculate.

Younger people are
dressed in blue jeans
and white Addidas
surrounding him with
cameras hanging from
their necks, watching
intently for a flash,
he notes, those clothes,
nothing Mao would
ever have approved.

Everything has changed
fast, he says, he knows
his presence is to preserve
the sacred, what little is left.

The altar of Buddha,
the giant gold statue
that towers behind him,
with a head the size
of twelve men,
eyes made of rubies,
teeth made of diamonds,
a sword pointed for battle,
eight hundred years old
however, pictures
destroy the brilliance.

So he sits and he guards
the statue not knowing
he is Buddha and the statue
is guarding his image.

edrik@gateway.net